From Behind the Red Wall
by LD200
Summary: Cyberlife is concerned about Connor's newfound ability to feel things and is prepared to resort to violence to force Connor back to his old programming (courtesy of a cheeky romp into Connor's mind palace). They forgot they made a rock-solid relentless renegade who doesn't know the meaning of surrender. [Takes place post 'Public Enemy']
1. Chapter 1: Hacked

From Behind the Red Wall

 **A/N:** Did you know that, in Connor's flowchart menu, there is at least one instance where the Software Instability stat can actually say either 'Machine' or 'Deviant' instead of the usual question marks… BEFORE Connor officially makes that decision? Keep an eye out for that the next time you play Crossroads.

I think that says something about Connor. In fact, I think a LOT of stuff says things about Connor. His character is far more dimensional than just deviant vs. machine. A dedicated machine!Connor is still warm enough and human enough to check on Hank in Night of the Soul, saying, "I needed to see you." A fully _deviant_ Connor is still cold enough to _murder_ at least two humans in the CyberLife Tower and never stops to question it the way Markus does when he's faced with those types of decisions. There is so much of him I want to explore.

This multi-chaptered yet ultimately short story (which will eventually be part of a much larger story, but I'll get to that later) takes place after the Public Enemy mission, and Connor has discovered he can feel pain amongst other sensations and emotions. Amanda and Cyberlife aren't too thrilled.

This first part is a little short but there'll be more soon! Enjoy.

…

From Behind the Red Wall

…

Chapter 1: Hacked

For just an instant, Connor caught a glimpse of what was being orchestrated within his mind palace. An event beyond his control, courtesy of CyberLife and Amanda and [someone else?] – something he knew right then and there he was not supposed to see.

"Connor!"

Then his field of vision opened up – had he lapsed into standby? – and Hank was standing there filling most of it, looking frustrated and reluctantly worried. "Yes?"

"The hell are you doing? I come out of the bathroom and you're standing in front of the couch staring off into another world."

Connor didn't have an explanation. At least, not a comfortable one. "Lieutenant, I… I think something is going to happen to me."

"What do you mean? What's going to happen?" Hank held his gaze for a moment, and then appeared to realize something and let out a sigh. "Ah, Christ. Don't tell me _you_ can have _nightmares._ "

"No," Connor said quickly. "This was not a nightmare."

"Okay, well, what're you all worked up about, then?" Hank gestured to Connor's temple. "Your little circle's flashing red."

"Why couldn't I do anything, just then?" What he had seen – it wasn't just in his head. Something had overcome his body, even if just for a minute. They had taken control. They had taken his… What was the word? They had taken his…

"Hey – answer me! What the fuck is going on?"

He met Hank's eyes and said absently, "Agency."

"Okay, you're starting to freak me out. You need to make some sense, _now._ "

"Agency," again, was all he said – the answer to his own internal question – and then the same was gone, and this time it didn't come back when Hank called his name.

…

The zen garden changed sometimes.

Sometimes there were flowers. For a while now, there had been a bonsai tree that looked like the one on Hank's desk, except here it was atop a small white plinth. Occasionally other things appeared on the plinths. He wasn't sure yet what they meant, and whether it was his own experiences or CyberLife's whims that put them there.

It might have disturbed him if this place wasn't so… serene. As it was, the slight changes that occurred to the place were just soft whispers of mysteries that he met with content nonchalance.

Right now, there was a much-less-subtle change, one he had never seen before: A small white building a short way into the trees. It had the same appearance as the other white structures and pillars in the garden, but he was certain it hadn't always been there.

Amanda was standing in its doorframe.

"Connor, there you are," she said pleasantly. "Follow me, please."

Looking from her to the building to the garden and back to her, Connor hesitated. Amanda let him, smiling patiently, but he sensed a touch of urgency in her demeanor.

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

Connor resumed walking towards her. "Of course not. I was just confused about this… new development."

"Come inside," Amanda said, gesturing with one hand, "and I'll explain everything."

"…Okay."

They stood in a foyer of sorts. The door shut fast behind them. The building hadn't appeared large, but already this foyer looked bigger inside than the whole thing had from the outside. Connor supposed that was okay here. This wasn't a real place, after all.

A set of double doors led further into the heart of the place itself. Inside was a jarring combination of comfort and cold. The couches and warm lamp light made it look like a living room. The way the furniture was situated – across from a very plain table and under a much colder light which hung above it – made it look like an interrogation room.

"Surely you know we had to address these… new developments," Amanda said gently. "In moderation, they're okay, but now… your sense of emotion is stronger, and you feel physical pain almost the way a human does. They're beginning to hinder you. They're not good for you, Connor. We can make this right, and it doesn't have to be difficult."

Connor looked back over his shoulder at the double doors.

"They're locked," Amanda said. "But you already know that."

"Amanda – I am doing what I think is best for my mission. You've always given me a chance to speak my mind in the past. Don't you want to hear my explanation?

"I do, Connor, but this particular situation ends the same way regardless. The timing isn't right, Connor. It's too soon."

"What are you talking about?"

Amanda gestured for him to sit down. He did, and she sat on the overstuffed chair across the table from him. After a moment, she said, "Go on."

"What?"

"You wanted me to hear what you had to say. So… why do you think these newfound abilities to feel are a positive for your investigation, Connor?"

"Because if I can _understand_ the deviants, I can be more effective in determining the cause of the changes and putting a stop to it. If I can experience some sense of what they feel, maybe I can get them to cooperate with me." He paused, but Amanda didn't respond, just kept watching him. "It just makes sense. How am I the only one that sees this?"

"No need to be defensive, Connor. I see it too, and that's exactly what I thought you would say. I also suspect it's… an excuse."

It was. He couldn't just understand deviants better. He could understand humans better.

He could understand Hank better.

He could understand _himself_ better.

"I wondered if we might give it a chance, Connor, but your actions lately have shown that it's far too dangerous. And too _distracting_. Taking an hour longer than necessary to repair a wound to your hand because it _hurt,_ breaking up an irrelevant fight in a bar, accompanying Hank to said bar in the first place, getting into an argument with the lieutenant after he saw you with your facial skin deactivated… It's too _much_ , Connor. I realize that a degree of… understanding is desirable in investigating deviants. But what I don't think you see is that you _always_ had that, Connor. You were always special."

Trying not to look as lost as he felt, Connor met her eyes. "So… where do I go from here?"

Amanda leaned closer towards him, arms on the table. She looked earnest, but reluctant. "We reprogram your response to the specific feelings – physical and emotional – that you have learned. Trust me, Connor, it will be easier for you to do this now than it would be if we let this go on."

"No," he said at once. He regretted it for a second, but then realized it didn't make a difference either way. What did he have to hide? She already suspected he would refuse – he could see that in the lack of surprise on her face now – and he was going to be systematically reprogrammed either way. Why not fight it? Why not fight?

"Connor, I understand you are struggling right now but you do not have a say in this."

"No," he said again. "Please don't. I don't want it to go away."

"Why?" she asked, appearing to plead, but the veil was thin. "So much of what you've experienced _hurts_ , Connor. Why do you want this?"

"Because not all of it hurts, and the parts that don't make the parts that do worth it."

"So it's selfish, then. Not very mission-oriented."

"It's not selfish," Connor said. "It was selfish _before_ , when I had no real notion of how my words and actions were affecting others, because I didn't know how to feel it myself."

Amanda's gaze became more critical. " _That_ doesn't sound very mission-oriented either."

"I want to solve this mission – I _will_ solve this mission! But I need you to let me do it my way, Amanda. Isn't that why CyberLife designed me?"

"CyberLife certainly didn't design you to talk back this much. Sorry, Connor, but like I told you: all roads of this conversation lead to the same place. This is going to happen. The only say you have is in how easy or difficult you make it."

The double doors opened just long enough to let a third being into the room.

Connor looked over his shoulder, gasped, and rose to his feet in an instant. The new occupant followed him as he backed away and only stopped when they were close to the corner of the room.

Backpedaling when there was nowhere to go – what was he thinking? But then, humans weren't rational when they were scared either.

Holding his hands up a little, imploring the other for calm, Connor looked into his own brown eyes as the RK800 model pinned him against the wall.


	2. Chapter 2: Fake

A/N: I have to confess, I don't think this story is my best work. I _wrote_ most of it already, weeks ago, but haven't been as focused on it when it comes to the editing.

You see, at some point between the end of 'Heat' and now, I had another little idea, one which takes place after the main game yet also still retains a connection to 'Heat' and to this story, as I am writing all my D:BH stories within the same world-state/canon (see my profile for more specific info on this canon). Anyway, that little idea snowballed into a novel-length fiction that is now sitting comfortably at 70,000 words and still IN PROGRESS, so it'll easily shape up to be longer than 100,000, with a good chance of it in fact being _much_ longer than 100,000.

The story 'Eternal Winter' that I mentioned before? Yeah. It turned into a fucking monster of a story. This story is immensely short by comparison. I need to get the rest of it up so that I can (hopefully) post a snippet of 'Eternal Winter' on November 12… aka the day the revolution succeeded, and the day that ultimately gives 'Eternal Winter' its plot.

Enough about that for now – let's get the rest of THIS story rolling, first!

…

Chapter 2:

"You can't do this," Connor said. "We're… we're the same! You'd betray yourself like that?"

The other RK800 stared back at him. "You're the one who betrayed us, Connor. I'm just helping us get back on track. You'll thank me later."

"Hold up," said Amanda behind them. "I can see things may become… difficult. Please follow me, Connor. I'd like to preserve the serenity of the garden for you so that we may continue your reports as usual once this is said and done."

Connor was released and eased firmly ahead by his counterpart. Amanda slid sideways behind an empty bookshelf adorning the room and opened another door there, leading them both into the dark beyond. "It's being uploaded from your memory," she explained as they waded forward, the black around them bright like a television screen that had just been turned on. "Ah, here we go."

Eyes adjusting to the dark, Connor realized they were in a closed phone store. Before he could make out more details – or perhaps the details simply were not there – Amanda opened the front door and they emerged onto a familiar Detroit street. He recognized it from the first night he met Hank, standing outside, considering the door that very clearly said no androids allowed. It was raining, just as it had been last time he was here. Heavier, this time. And straight down. Perfectly straight down like wind had never existed.

Jimmy's Bar was two hundred and eight feet to his right, down the street. He remembered.

But to his left…

"It had to be a place that was a vivid memory for you, and utilizing the minutes before and after you met Hank Anderson has proven to recreate this place vividly indeed."

Connor had had all of his sensors going strong here, both to be aware of his potentially hostile surroundings and to locate Lieutenant Anderson. Indeed, to recreate a setting in his mind, they needed a memory just like this.

"Are you listening, Connor?"

To his left, fifty-six feet away and right in the middle of the road, was the stone structure from the garden. Its blue glow made him think it was a police car out of the corner of his eye, but now he had faced it fully and there was no mistaking it. He still didn't know everything about that stone, but something like instinct drew him to it. And so to it he went.

"Connor, we're not going that way right now," Amanda called.

"Do you want me to stop it?" asked the other Connor, his voice fading in the background as Connor continued away from them. If Amanda answered the other Connor's question, he didn't hear it over the rain. He didn't need to. His goal was inexplicably singular. Get to the stone.

"I really don't think that's a good idea, Connor," Amanda called, closer again, like she was coming after him.

He started to run.

"Connor…"

"You're wrong about me!" he shouted back. "I won't let you take away what I've learned!"

"Connor, _stop!_ "

 _ **ORDER**_ _REGISTERED_

The window came into view as he took his next steps. No… not a window. Windows could be broken far easier.

His real, physical form would have simply stopped, with no other choice. Here, inside the mind palace, Connor caught himself against the red wall like it was there physically and not just digitally, hands bracing against it, leaning into it, trying to push, trying to reach the stone.

"No," he whispered. "No… no."

"Sorry, Connor," Amanda murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I told you we aren't going that way right now."

"But I… you…" He clung to the translucent barrier. "You can't do that. We're only in my mind. There aren't… _barriers_ here!"

"Today, there are. This is why I wanted you away from the garden. I want you to feel at peace in the garden. Come, Connor. Please. I know this is difficult."

Connor bowed his head against the barrier for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. Then, gathering himself, he turned and went with Amanda.

They stopped on the sidewalk, under an awning attached to a building that was tucked slightly away from its neighbors. This pocket shielded them from prying eyes that were not there. Nobody was watching. Still, Connor wanted to be back out in the open, on the street. At least there, there was the illusion he could run. At least there… there _had_ to be a way to get beyond the wall, if he was just strong enough. If he just knew what he had to do…

"Connor," Amanda said, but she was not talking to him. She was talking to RK800. That was how Connor decided he would refer to his counterpart. He didn't believe said counterpart was merely a machine – he was built exactly the same way as Connor and he wouldn't reduce a being so similar to himself to something so simple. Still, RK800 suited the other Connor's behavior so far. Until he acted like something other than a machine, Connor would treat him like a machine.

What Amanda wanted RK800 to do went unspoken between them, but it didn't remain a mystery for long.

A silent order was issued that forced Connor to stand frozen against the brick wall beneath the awning. There was nothing he could do as RK800 calmly lifted his left hand, pressed it against the wall around shoulder-height, and slowly, almost _leisurely_ put a knife into his hand.

Barred from all movement, all Connor could do was cry out. The slowness of it allowed his analysis to pick up every degree, every angle of what was happening. The pop of his synthetic skin as the first layer was penetrated. The crack of his exterior – the way the crack spread up and down the plastic chassis as the knife wedged its way further in. The slight turn of RK800's hand as he maneuvered the blade to avoid anything of structural importance inside his hand. The flood of white-hot pain as the metal tip pushed into a sensory node, very directly and very deliberately. Then, precise manipulation of the node in a way it never had been before—

 _Pain level 63% capacity [expand capacity?]_

Not part of his original self-diagnostic programming, but a warning from some part of his software that had only recently developed; his own tool of self-preservation. Maybe it wasn't 100%, but if 100% was the excruciating, reality-warping pain Connor instinctively knew was possible [ _I have instincts?_ ], then 63%, even for a second, was still pretty damn high.

"Diagnose."

He hadn't found a loophole for such direct orders yet, so he obeyed, glimpsing it for just long enough to register that he was not seriously damaged despite the pain – and then dismissed it. He refused to rely on his program, no matter how much it hurt. He would not let them take this away from him.

 _Pain level 41% capacity_

Shit. He had never been so scared of feeling comfortable. His software was already adjusting to the new information from the diagnostic, recognizing that the physical sensation was not as crucial to his safety and self-protection as it had felt a few seconds ago and writing it off as benign. The pain had decreased almost as soon as it had started, even with the knife still halfway through his hand. As the physical relief of normalcy forsook his true desires, Connor let out a breath.

"Connor."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Don't we both want the same things, somewhere in our program?"

"Open your eyes," said RK800 Mk. 60, not answering his question.

Red. Yellow, spinning, still yellow, yellow, blue. Flickering. Solid. Connor opened his eyes.

"You don't understand, do you?" There was warmth in the brown eyes across from his own. Connor stared hard into them, into this version of himself. He was in there, somewhere. _I am in there somewhere._

But who, precisely, was 'he?' Connor had chased, attacked, interrogated, and tortured deviants before. Not without some semblance of sympathy, but he did it, regardless. And even though things had changed a lot for him in the last few days, he could not say with 100% certainty that he would not do it again if he felt he had to. What if war broke out? Hell, what if he was wrong about androids – pure hypotheticals, of course – and found himself needing to hurt or kill a _human_? The side he was on didn't matter; his methods would remain the same. If it came down to it, if he _had_ to cause harm, he would. That was who he was.

That was how Connor knew RK800 would harm him, no matter how much sympathy either of them thought he had. Maybe he would do it gently – the way Connor himself had interrogated Carlos Ortiz's android, gently, reassuringly, yet never enough to keep the android from killing himself in the end. Had that been Connor's fault? Maybe, maybe not, but the fact remained that he could have stopped it and instead he had let it happen. Too warm. Too cold. Or perhaps not enough of either.

Perhaps, simply, not enough.

"I…" Connor looked over at his left hand, at the knife whose tip rested precisely halfway through, at the RK800's right hand holding it ever so steady there. "I understand."

Just like when he himself had first captured Ortiz's android and it asked him why he couldn't have just left it there in the attic – RK800 wasn't far enough along yet to have a choice, even if he thought he did. His spectrum of existence didn't consist of an array of potential decisions. Right now, even if he was capable of _thinking_ of alternatives, all he could truly _do_ was follow his directives. His software was stable. Too stable. And since this version of Connor was just a projection of a program precisely as that program existed when it had been uploaded into his mind palace, it was not going to change anytime soon. This RK800 was as static as a read-only document.

Still, that didn't mean it lacked all semblance of the Connor that was. It was, even in its apparent developmental stasis, some version of Connor.

"What is it you're hiding?" asked the RK800.

"Nothing," Connor replied. "Just because you can't see it doesn't mean I'm hiding it. I'm telling you – I understand. Even if you don't."

"Understand what?"

"Why you have to do this," Connor said calmly, and even though he knew what the implications were, somehow it was easier – because at least he knew himself. This Connor might hurt him, but it would be predictable. He could work with that. "It's okay."

The other brown eyes softened, and Connor saw yet another glimpse of himself in them as RK800 said: "I don't want to hurt you, Connor. But I don't think you've left me any choice."

Connor hadn't. His original programming was in there somewhere, but it was buried. Overwritten. He couldn't bring it back on his own.

"Run another diagnostic," RK800 commanded. "Don't close it until I tell you to."

Connor did, bringing up data in his peripheral vision of the damage to his hand:

 _94% functional_

 _No biocomponents damaged_

 _Pain level 30% capacity [expansion possible]_

 _Threat level 57%_

The high threat level, Connor understood, was because the knife's tip was resting directly against a sensory node. He remembered how Hank had explained pain; that even if it wasn't harmful, it could make you _think_ it would cause severe harm just because of the sensation of it. But all the other diagnostic stats told him that he was fine. Therefore: the threat level was an incorrect calculation based on his recent instabilities, not indicative of a true threat.

His ocular component laid the stats neatly against the leftmost building, still in sight but out of the way.

"This knife is still in your hand."

"I'm well aware," Connor said frigidly.

Pinned to a wall by a knife, just like in the Stratford Tower, only here, Hank wasn't here to help. A pang of [missing?] settled somewhere near his thirium regulator and he wondered where Hank was – where _he_ was in relation to Hank.

Then, he remembered: Hank's living room. The lieutenant staring at him with concern. Connor trying to think of a word he couldn't think of. Scared he was losing control. And for a split second, he saw his real, corporeal self, standing somewhere dark.

Hank was nowhere to be found.

"One of two things can happen here, Connor," RK800 continued, pulling him back under and forcing him to abandon all other trains of thought. "When I pierce this node, you can lean hard into that diagnostic, let _it_ determine whether any harm is coming to you, so that there is no longer any need to process it on a sensory level. Or, you can rely on your recent knowledge of feelings and sensations, but I should warn you: it won't be pleasant."

"Wait!" Connor said. "Listen to me. This is not something I can reprogram all at once. I'm going to do as you ask – okay?" He took a breath he didn't need to take, but he had learned from watching humans do it that it was meant to soothe, and at some point, without realizing it, his own mimicry of their behavior had come to be almost as soothing to him. "Please," he said, quieter. "I won't fight you on this. Amanda has already made it clear to me that this is the only way forward. But I need you to work _with_ me, not against me."

"Okay, okay," replied the RK800. He had his free raised slightly, palm facing the ground and easing lower, as if to bring Connor's anxiety down; trying to evoke calm in Connor the same way Connor frequently did with deviants. The RK800's other hand, however, remained firmly around the knife. "I still can't promise you this will be easy… but that doesn't mean it needs to be this difficult. Hold still for me."

"Okay."

A slight adjustment was made. Connor flinched slightly at the movement of the blade, but a few seconds later, it was no longer touching the node directly. He could still feel it, of course, but it wasn't nearly as worrying.

"Diagnostic?" asked the RK800 patiently.

"Yes, it's still up. Everything is… everything is fine."

 _SOFTWARE INSTABILITY_ v

What little pain remained started to dissipate, break apart. Not entirely, but enough – too much. He didn't _want_ it to go, because that brought him one step closer to stability again, one big step closer to machine. But pain hurt, and he didn't know how to hold onto something that felt so wrong.

…

" _Wait!" Connor yanked his injured hand from Hank's grip and shot up out of his chair._

" _What is it, what's wrong?" Hank asked urgently, standing up too._

" _This is – this is going to hurt, isn't it?"_

" _Well yeah, but it'll help you. Jesus, Connor, I thought something was actually wrong. You freaked me out for a second there."_

" _How much – how much will it hurt?"_

" _Fuck if I know, but… considering your limited experience with physical pain, probably quite a bit."_

" _Why?" He couldn't see his LED but he knew it was red. "If this is going to help me, then why will it hurt so badly?"_

" _Ah, fuck… I don't know how to explain this, Connor. Just… let's both sit back down, okay? I won't do anything you don't want me to do."_

 _Hank sat down first, hands visible on the table, and then Connor followed, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself. "Sorry, Lieutenant."_

" _This probably won't make much sense to you," Hank said, "but our bodies take pain at face value. If it's posing any kinda threat, at all, it's gonna hurt. Even if it's also helping you, like what I want to do. I know that must be difficult to process, but if you run your diagnostic_ while _I'm cauterizing your hand, you'll see that it's okay. You don't honestly think I would harm you, do you, Connor?"_

"… _Okay." Because even though Hank wasn't ordering him to do anything, he could tell Hank wanted him to listen. Because he wanted to be a good case partner. Because he liked that Hank cared. "Let's try."_

…

It had taken a few attempts, but eventually, Connor had been still as Hank had asked. At that time, he ran his diagnostic program – at Hank's request – to show himself that it was okay to feel. Now, they wanted him to run his diagnostic for the opposite reason. Because they were going through the same process, but in reverse. Because they wanted him to go back; to see that it was okay _not_ to feel.

RK800 withdrew the knife from his hand. All pain subsided. Whether a reward for doing as asked, or a sign of his program already readapting its old mechanisms, Connor wasn't sure.

…

 _They finished up on the back side of his hand, but something between them was… different, now._

" _Hey, your LED stayed blue this time."_

" _Did it?" Connor asked._

" _Yeah. What's up with that? Go back to your original program after all?"_

" _No, Lieutenant. I think I actually did the opposite. I still felt it, I just wasn't as worried."_

 _Hank didn't say anything, regarding Connor skeptically._

" _I didn't run a diagnostic this time," Connor confessed. "I simply chose to include what you were doing as an acceptable part of my program, without the need to analyze the risks with a diagnostic."_

" _You know, there's a word for that."_

 _Trust. The word was trust._

…

As his program lowered both his physical sensitivity and his emotion recall, Connor knew objectively what he had felt towards Hank in those moments, but he had to fight to actually feel it, as though he had thought about it a thousand times and worn out its novelty.

"Come," said Amanda, and before he knew it, he was being led by the RK800 back into the street, into the rain. He let himself be pulled along, limbs feeling like wet noodles. He couldn't fight them right now, not when he had to fight his own programming. It was reverting faster than he had imagined possible. He clung on to everything he had learned the past day. Held on tight.

 _Trust._ Firm belief in someone even in the face of adverse circumstances. In this case, a bond forged over his own vulnerability: a minor injury that in Connor's reality was a major hurdle because it was the first time he could feel the pain. Hank had _respected_ Connor's reality, even while giving him a firm push further _into_ it, urging Connor to face it. What, who, was there to trust if there was no risk? If his diagnostic ran all the risks for him and made his choices based on analysis alone, what was the point?

 _Fortitude._ Strength in the face of adversity or pain. Hank hadn't prompted that from him like he had the word trust; Connor had recognized it himself, matching his own feelings to definitions in his database until he found not just a suitable word, but the most fitting word. And it felt _good,_ despite the pain, to have entwined himself with that quality even for a few moments; to have curled around a notion so human, except unlike empathy and trust, this wasn't something he pushed outwards towards other people, it was something he pulled _in,_ something that was just for him and him alone. How could he know what strength was if there was nothing to challenge it, temper it, nothing to compare it to? How could he know who _he_ was if nothing he did had any consequences for him? His decisions certainly had consequences for the rest of the world.

And what about Hank? Only now did he realize just the kind of fortitude the old lieutenant must have – in spite of all his flaws – to carry on with decency the way he did, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

…

" _You should stop drinking, Lieutenant._ "

…

Words he had said more than once – but it was only now, only after physical and emotional pain turned into a _reality_ instead of a mere concept that Connor appreciated just how big of a task that was for Hank. 'Stop drinking,' after the emotional turmoil of losing his son?

Connor had 'missed' Hank before, and missed him now. The pang of dread and longing he had felt was nothing – _absolutely nothing –_ compared to how Hank must miss his son, and yet for Connor, as new as he was to such things, it was huge.

 _You should stop drinking._

And never mind the painful and dangerous physical symptoms involved in alcohol withdrawal. No _wonder_ Hank felt insulted at some of the things Connor said – _You should stop drinking. You should consult a professional who can help you. You shouldn't eat that. I realize you have personal issues, but you need to move past them._ – Hank had thrown him into the wall at the DPD when Connor had come out with that last particular gem of insight, and now Connor had become capable of _understanding_ why, and he could feel that understanding fading right along with the pain in his hand.

Struggle; serenity. Pain; pleasure. Dark; light. One didn't matter without the other and he couldn't keep the best parts of what he had learned without keeping the worst, too.

"Here we are. Inside, please."

Amanda held the door for the twin androids. Connor went in first, pushed gently by his counterpart who for now was treating him exactly as Connor would treat a deviant; which was to say, reassuringly, with respect, but always with something ruthless in his repertoire, ready for use if he needed it.

And Connor realized he didn't care. He didn't care what they did to him, didn't care that he was being led into an empty Jimmy's Bar, didn't care how far he now was from the blue-glowing stone. All he cared about was holding onto what he [knew?]

[knew?]

[Do I still know?]

Had he felt the rain on his skin when they were on the street twenty-seven seconds ago? He couldn't remember. That they were inside his own head didn't matter. He had felt rain in the zen garden before. Everything in his mind felt the way it did in the real world, for the most part. He should have felt the rain.

He should have felt the rain.

"Can we go back outside?"

"I'm afraid not, Connor. Come on."

Connor stood still. The RK800 put an arm firmly around his shoulders and tried to lead him further inside. Connor locked himself down in quiet refusal.

"Connor." Coming around front, the RK800 faced him, shaking his head a little. "Let's not make this harder than it has to be."

Closing in on a singular truth, Connor decided that was exactly what he was going to do.

He wanted to feel the rain. If he had to pretend their reset was working, he would.

In the absence of any immediate orders, he set his own directive:

 _ **FAKE**_ _SYSTEM REPROGRAMMING_

Because what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. It would only hurt him.

…

A/N: I feel the need to justify the specificity of Connor being afraid to lose his sense of humanity under these circumstances. See, the software stability changes in-game… they're never _specific._ It either goes up, or down, and that's it. I've decided to address it the same way here. They're trying to forcibly lower Connor's instability, and he can't lose one part of his humanity without also losing other parts. Another example of this is on a very rare path in-game (neutral relationship with Hank AND Connor finds Jericho without needing the evidence room AND Connor has died multiple times), Hank says, "Something's changed in you. Each time you died, you came back a little colder, with a little less empathy." So Connor's instability goes down not just with Connor's decisions, but also potentially with things that happen that he can't necessarily control, either.

It's amazing really – I have played this game upwards of a dozen times now and I still learn new things every single time. I mean, Jesus, did you know Zlatko has the same chandelier as Carl? You do now. Until next time, lads and ladies.


	3. Chapter 3: Rise

**A/N:** I'm not sure whether to say this is the end of this cozy modest adventure that started with Heat, or just the beginning of an altogether bigger and not-so-modest adventure. Either way, I hope you'll join me for Eternal Winter, a more sprawling adventure that deals with some pretty dark subject matter for both Connor (Cyberlife trying to control him like at the end of the game, as well as another lousy thing that happens to him in-story), and Hank (dealing with unresolved emotions and, eventually, trying to conquer his alcoholism), but overall I feel has an optimistic spirit not unlike these stories. :) Look out for it in December or early January, or follow/subscribe to get the update!

I worked pretty hard on this chapter, so I'd love to hear what you think if you're of a mind to leave a comment for me. Please enjoy, and if you celebrate it, happy Thanksgiving from Michigan. :)

…

Chapter 3: Rise

He couldn't have imagined Jimmy's Bar, even a simulation of it branching out from the zen garden, being so bleak and empty. Or maybe it was just his mind that was bleak and empty. It was hard to feel exactly buoyant when he knew people were about to hurt him.

Okay, Connor thought; here's the plan.

He would present with what signs of sensation he still had. Then, he would not only disable his diagnostic, he would shut it down. The one benefit of being inside his head was that they could not perfectly measure his obedience here; they were inside his head, too. They would judge the success of his reprogramming based on his reactions. His expressions. His LED. If he could gradually, satisfactorily convince them that he felt less and less…

Without warning, Connor turned for the door – turned to go back out in the rain. Predictably, the RK800 grasped him by the arm and yanked him back. Following the momentum, Connor turned on his heels and swung—

The RK800 caught his fist, just as Connor knew it would. With both of his hands immobilized, he was wide open as his counterpart kicked him hard between the legs.

Oof, he hadn't predicted that part. Lots of nodes there.

 _DIAGNOSE_

 _ **REACT**_

 _IGNORE_

He meant to ignore it, but he couldn't obey his own directive; his own programming against the programming. Collapsing, Connor folded in on himself protectively. It hurt too much to do anything else.

"Don't you see how weak this makes you?"

Connor slammed one palm on the ground and started to push himself up. "I told you I c-couldn't change it back all at once…"

"And then," RK800 said, "so soon after you told me to work _with_ you, you turned around and went _against_ me! You'll have to pardon me if I'm finding you a _little_ disingenuous right now."

"I wasn't trying to—"

"That's enough, deviant!"

"I'm _not—_ "

The other Connor stomped down on the hand he was using to push himself up. Connor cried out – actually _screamed_ – he had never done that before –

Keep it blue. Keep it blue keep it blue keep it red red red red red red red red spinning

Their reprogramming was already too strong. He couldn't obey his own orders to ignore the pain. The only way he could set it aside was to rely on his diagnostic, rely on his software's old programming and he _couldn't do that_ or he was going to lose everything –

A biocomponent in his hand cracked. The text of the diagnostic overlay – now lying right on the floor below his face – started spouting off warnings in blinking red. Both of his realities – the program and the pain – running at once – it was too much – temperature was rising, it was overwhelming his system. One had to go.

 _Can I do this?_

"Let him up, Connor," Amanda said, addressing the RK800 Mk. 60.

"You don't understand him the way I do," replied the android, his voice cold and warm at once. "Let me work. I can fix him – fix _us_. I can make this right."

Connor bowed his head into the wooden floor and dismissed all warnings. Then he cancelled the diagnostic and all the words, stats, and percentages disappeared from his field of vision, leaving only the bar floor.

He'd had time to adapt now. It still hurt, and it would continue to hurt – but he could choose not to prioritize it. He could choose to prioritize other things; to take control of his body and his mind; to put his conscious reactions over his unconscious ones. It just took a hell of a lot of system power to sustain it.

 _ **IGNORE**_

"Okay," he murmured almost to himself, acquiescent. "Okay."

Red, spinning down to yellow, spinning down to blue. Sustain.

"Let's take it easy, now," Amanda said to the RK800, actually trying to de-escalate the situation. "I do believe you've placated Connor for the moment."

The pressure came off his hand all at once. Connor preemptively overrode the urge to flinch so that by the time the rebound pain kicked in, he was able to be still and keep all his signs neutral. After a moment, he lifted his head a few inches from the floor, but didn't look at either of them. "Are you done?"

Oh, that came out with more bite than he expected. More than he thought he had, right then. It felt good.

"That depends on you, Connor."

Connor pushed himself up and straightened his coat. He tested his injured hand, moving his fingers around, strumming them against his side. He knew – even without the diagnostic – that the biocomponent in his hand was now more broken that it had been when he had last seen its status. Or, at least it would have been, if any of this was real.

It was real enough for him – but still, something like relief washed over him as he realized what this meant. They could do whatever they wanted to him, and he would be okay. It was inside his head. Maybe all these things were being simulated, but they weren't actually happening to his body. He actually was _okay._ He had to remember that.

 _I'm okay._

The blue flickered lightly. Connor nodded at Amanda and his counterpart in turn. "All right. You have… protocols, for this sort of thing. Is that it? I suppose if you were done reprogramming my senses and feelings, we wouldn't still be here."

"You're correct," Amanda said, the smile on her face just a little warmer than it had been before. "I'm relieved you understand, Connor. But now that you are cooperating with us, what remains will be much, much easier for you. See how much better you feel already?"

"I do," Connor said. "Thank you for being patient with me while I navigated all of this."

"Oh, Connor, don't think twice about it. You've been through a lot lately. Even machines struggle when they're overloaded. I'm just glad you see we're on the same side, here."

Connor offered her a diplomatic smile. "Of course."

"Connor." Amanda looked now at the other RK800. "Now that we've made some progress, I trust you can establish a baseline?"

"I'm not sure I understand. Can you offer more explanation?"

"I'm going to lock the doors and leave you alone with… yourself. Please run any and all tests you deem necessary to determine the margin between Connor's current functioning and his original programming."

The RK800's eyebrows knitted together determinedly. "Got it."

Connor locked eyes with the other. "And here I thought this was supposed to get _easier_ from here."

"If you've been as cooperative as you've appeared, it will."

Matching the other's frown, Connor turned his gaze back to Amanda – only to see that she was already gone. "Amanda?"

"Just me, myself, and I."

"I don't know," Connor replied, keeping his head angled towards where Amanda had been so that the RK800 wouldn't see his LED spinning red, red, red. "I only see me and myself."

"Touche, but would you really want another one of us in the room?"

No, he wouldn't. Two was already one too many.

"Connor, I'm talking to you."

Taking a breath, Connor forced his systems to slow down. He couldn't quite tell if his LED was blue but he was pretty sure it was when he faced the other android again. "I'm listening."

The other Connor started to close the distance, hands out slightly at his sides, palms open. No knife. No gun. Face full of caution and empathy. And for a moment, Connor almost fell for it.

That moment of unguardedness was just long enough for the RK800 to take his hand and hold tight. His skin stretched back, revealing the white chassis beneath while his reflection established a connection between them. Seconds later, they were separated, but Connor could feel it: the connection remained.

Left with a sinking feeling, Connor rested his weight against the edge of the bar. Dread had never felt so heavy.

He noted dryly that that was a _good_ thing. It meant he could still feel.

"You know what I did, don't you?"

Unable to speak, Connor nodded.

"We're one and the same, Connor. And with this link between us, you can trust that I won't harm you – because I can't do anything to you without doing it to myself too. The only difference is that it won't bother me. If all goes well, then it won't bother you either."

The RK800 adjusted a setting from the inside and Connor felt his insides go hollow, like all his biocomponents and wiring had just dropped out.

And then, the hollowness filled with heat. Gentle heat at first, then liquid, boiling, then fire, scorching –

"Just a little manipulation of thirium pressure and body temperature, Connor. I can feel it too, but it doesn't hurt me. You… do know it doesn't have to hurt you either, right?"

"That's enough!" Connor shouted. "Quit playing with me!"

"You can make it stop yourself, Connor. Do you have your diagnostic program running? It will tell you all you need to know. The sensory information will become recessive, and…"

"I told you – I can't do it all at once!"

"This _isn't_ all at once. That doesn't mean it won't still be challenging sometimes. I'm sorry, Connor, this is the way it has to be. The less stubborn you are, the quicker this is over."

No… this was too surreal. He couldn't see, hear, pinpoint the source of the pain. It was coming from within like it was triggered by [rA9?] God himself. This wasn't… this wasn't how it was supposed to work…

"Okay," murmured the RK800 in a soothing tone, stepping closer again, and Connor let him. "I think I get it now. You can't reconcile it because there doesn't seem to be any kind of source. Is that right?"

Connor nodded, trying not to plead with his eyes. So much conviction a few minutes ago – yet now, at the first sign of discomfort, he had gone weak at the knees. He kept reminding himself his real body was fine and well, but that logic only went so far when it felt like his inner wiring was crumpling like the legs of a dead insect.

"I'm sorry." There was no condition, no 'but' this time as the strange sensation was carefully lowered and withdrawn from his system – just an apology. "If it would make it easier for you, we can make this… more direct. Would it help you, to know specifically what's happening as it's happening?"

Connor didn't know, and he didn't want to damn himself one way or the other, so he stood there frozen, one hand clutching the counter.

"Let me try something different. I'm going to lock commands on every part of your body except your face."

Fuck. "No, _wait!_ "

"Shh, it's _okay._ See – you can still talk to me. I won't take that away from you, okay, Connor? We can negotiate with each other, here. But we'll get nowhere if I let you keep the ability to fight back."

"I won't fight back," Connor said quickly, and hated himself for how passive he sounded.

"You already have!" replied the RK800, not angry, just exasperated – and Connor hated himself a little less. That's right. He _had_ tried to fight back. And he still could, in his own way.

 _Remember. This is not about winning. This is about holding on. I don't even care if it means I'm a 'deviant,' I don't CARE! I can feel. I can feel and that belongs to me._

There was a song stuck in his head. He was sure it wasn't something Hank had played. It certainly wasn't heavy metal or jazz. It was soft. Courageous. Hopeful. He tried to remember where he had heard it before.

The RK800 opened a panel near his stomach, reached inside, and squeezed a fistful of wires and nodes. Connor actually found the presence of mind to look down and watch it happen – if only so that he could be prepared enough to neuter his own responses. Between several partially-executed self-commands not to react and repeated mental affirmations that his real body was unharmed, Connor kept his face a carefully sculpted picture of calm and his LED a slow, sliding blue.

Navigating upwards between the wires, the RK800's hand disappeared up into Connor's chest and grasped the frame of the thirium pump and _turned._

Not only did this send warnings blinking all over the bar (diagnosis or no diagnosis), it fucking _hurt_ in a way Connor was sure it hadn't when the Stratford Tower deviant had done it. That had hurt too, but not this much. He grunted through his teeth and didn't even care that his counterpart could see him squeezing his eyes shut tight.

"Too much, Connor?"

He kept his eyes shut, blocking out the fake world. "I'll make no apologies for needing to adapt."

"Ah, feisty in your own subtle way. I guess I can't fault you that, though. That's a quality we share."

What was that? Was he gaining the other Connor's approval without even meaning to? He rode the hope while he could. "One of many ways to cope with unpredictable circumstances." And while saying so, he focused outside the pain long enough to set his priority: endure. The diagnostic was well in standby and he left it there, refusing to submit to his code for even a second.

"Twenty-five seconds until shutdown, Connor."

Only then did it occur to him to wonder how his state here might affect his real body. If he really believed he was shutting down, would his real body follow suit as if it were an executed program? He didn't know. All he could do was trust his own alternate self enough to believe literal shutdown wasn't the answer, here. If that was the end-game, why bother with the tests?

"Fourteen seconds until shutdown."

 _It's okay._ It's okay. Keep it blue. "I should have brought the Stratford Tower deviant this close to the wire," Connor said. "Maybe it – maybe he would have actually talked to me then. I think you should let me hang onto a little bit of what I've learned. Not _all_ of it, mind you. But think about it: if I would have known during that interrogation exactly how much urgency you create in an android when you detach their regulator, I might have been more effective."

He had kept talking far longer than the fourteen seconds RK800 claimed were left until shutdown, and the world hadn't ended. The RK800 smiled just slightly. "Apparently not enough, if you were able to ignore it for that long. Well done, Connor. You've remained very calm. Perhaps you didn't get as far from your ideal self as I initially thought."

Connor fought back the urge to smirk, but still raised his eyebrows a little.

"Don't you feel better, knowing we're not so different?" asked the other Connor as he carefully, tenderly pulled his hand back down between the wires and out through Connor's abdomen before closing the panel. Thank rA9 for small mercies.

"I'm… relieved, if it means you don't feel as much need to hurt me." Sometimes, the truth just fit.

"On the contrary, it's time for me to pass you along to someone else," said the RK800. "Turn around."

Connor did, suddenly understanding what he was about to see.

Hank was sitting at the bar. He had a drink, a gun, and lines of moisture down his face. He was crying.

"Lieutenant Anderson…?" Against everything he knew, the scene registered in Connor's mind as the honest-to-God truth. And then, in the seconds after, when he remembered none of this was 'real' in the corporeal sense, it still struck him as true if for no other reason than he knew Hank had probably looked like this many, many times.

He _knew_ this wasn't real, but it looked so convincing, and he was so, so curious.

Hank didn't react, so Connor tried again to get his attention.

"Hank, would you be opposed to me joining you?" Slowly, Connor pulled out a stool and climbed upon it to sit next to Hank at the bar. "Are you all right?"

There was a third item on the bar in front of Hank, one he hadn't noticed before: that photo of Cole.

"Fuckin' android." Hank looked sidelong at Connor with no more feeling than if he were looking at an object. "What, you thought we cared about each other? You're a machine. You don't care about anything. Hell, you don't even care about your fuckin' mission, you only think you do."

"Why are you upset?" Connor asked.

"You tricked me, you know," Hank said. "You tricked me into playing pretend. Tricked me into caring about a person who… doesn't exist. You don't exist, Connor! You're not real and you fucking tricked me into thinking you were."

"I didn't trick you or anyone. I just—"

"Shut the fuck up and let me finish." It sounded so much like Hank that Connor wondered if Cyberlife hadn't gotten him in on this somehow. He didn't know how long he had been gone, after all. "You got me, Connor, you fuckin' got me, so now I have to deal with losing you, too. Losing someone I never even had because it was all bullshit. Just how much of an _asshole_ do you have to be to do something like that to a person, anyway?"

"I was only ever a machine, Lieutenant," said RK800 from behind him. "You were lonely, so you projected."

"Oh, so I'm just a lonely old fool now, is that it? Yeah, go fuck yourself."

He leaned to touch Hank's arm, to apologize for what RK800 had said, but a silent command locked all his muscles into place once again. More than that, Hank went still, too, as if frozen.

"This is how it ends," RK800 said. "You know this is how it ends. If you keep letting yourself feel things, letting yourself connect with him – you are only going to hurt him more. Worst-case scenario, you'll be killed one too many times and lose too much memory, or be shut down for failing your mission. Best-case scenario, you survive, and everything that's happening now – the excitement and the novelty of it that Hank doesn't want to admit he feels – it all fades into a memory. Into the background. Everything continues as it was for the lieutenant, and he realizes he got swept up in some grand adventure for a few days, and then life left him behind again."

"No," Connor said.

"You know his true nature. And you know life's true nature, too, Connor. The best thing you can possibly do for this man – and for the mission – is to let the fantasy end. Just as resigning yourself to machinehood is less painful now than it would be in the future, extracting yourself from this man's life _now_ will be less painful than if you wait. It has only been a few days. He isn't too attached yet, but he could be. He wants your friendship but he won't admit that to himself. Withdraw from him emotionally before he gets to a stage where he _can_ admit that to himself."

"There's no way you can be so certain that it would end badly," Connor said.

There was a flare of heat, almost a warning, as RK800 once again manipulated his internal temperature and the pressure around his biocomponents.

"But I can. _We_ can. Come on, now, Connor. You know he's slowly warming up to androids. That is going to get in the way of you stopping the deviants sooner or later. If there is any one notion about all of this that you _should_ let yourself grasp emotionally, even now, it's that Lieutenant Anderson deserves better than your deception."

"It's not a deception," Connor protested. The heat still sizzled hollowly in his chest, increasing in temperature and intensity slowly but surely. He wasn't going to ask RK800 to stop; not this time. "I do want the best for him. How is that a deception?"

"Because, if he keeps coming around to this new way of thinking, you are going to have to choose between him, and the mission. And you know already what choice you need to make."

It was as clear as day and as clear as the pain frying his insides. He just didn't want to see it.

"Shut it down, Connor. Let this be the end of your little experiment in _feeling_ , physically and emotionally."

RK800 was trying to see if Connor still reacted to what he was doing. A quick self-check let him know his LED was still blue, even as heat in his biocomponents and the tears on Hank's face seemed to curl around in his chest like a cramping muscle. Even if none of this was real, his system's reaction to it very much was. And just like a human's system, it could only take so much before it gave out.

"If it will mean I don't have to listen to this anymore," Connor said quietly, "then do your worst. I'll show you that I've reprogrammed myself to yours and Cyberlife's satisfaction."

"Very well, Connor."

 _Pain level 45% capacity [expand capacity?]_

 _ **ORDER**_ _REGISTERED [SELF]: LOOP LED FEEDBACK (STABLE)_

 _Pain level 71% capacity [expansion recommended]_

 _ **Do not expand capacity**_

 _Pain level 79% capacity [expansion recommended]_

 _ **Do not expand capacity**_

 _Pain level 88% capacity [expansion recommended]_

 _Threat level 80%_

 _Overheating imminent. Attempting cooldown._

 _Cooldown failed. Resources active elsewhere._

 _00:01:43 TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN_

Automatically establishing priorities for survival, the order for keeping his LED blue started to cancel. Connor overrode it manually and sustained it. He ignored the software recommendations. If he lowered his own sensitivity, not only would that take him another huge step closer to his original unfeeling programming, it would make what he was doing take that much longer.

As it was…

 _Pain level 93% capacity [expansion recommended]_

 _Emergency protocols engaged_

 _Temporary shutdown induction at 95% to prevent damage/permanent shutdown_

It was all a very fast process – but RK800 froze his wireless ministrations right there, keeping him firmly at 93%. Almost as if he knew.

With an abandon that Connor could never have risked replicating in his corporeal body, Connor redirected every single bit of processing power into maintaining a perfectly neutral stance and facial expression. The purpose was twofold: fooling RK800, and proving to himself that none of this was real, because if he drained his system of all energy like that in a real situation, he would shut down on the spot. Yet here he stood, his body a containment chamber for the agony wriggling and ripping inside of him as he looked at the RK800 straight on.

"Talk to me," said the other android.

"You're trying to read me," Connor said. "I understand. I hope my current state is to your satisfaction, and I trust you recognize that all parameters have been reset to their norms. I really would like to continue my investigation, and I can't do that from here."

"We still have a few more things left on the list, unfortunately."

Connor tilted his head just a little. "Such as?"

He couldn't maintain this. It had been maybe fifteen seconds, but it was fifteen seconds of the absolute worst physical anguish he had ever felt – was capable of feeling. But it wasn't quite _bad enough_ to—

"A few other tests," replied the RK800, "just as soon as we finish this one."

 _Pain level 97% of capacity_

 _Threshold of 95% exceeded_

 _INITIATING TEMPORARY SHUTDOWN_

There we go.

All other processes cancelled automatically. Connor's LED turned a vivid, angry red that sparked at the edges. He heard himself make a strangled noise that never developed into the scream he knew it could have been only because his voice component shut down too.

Of course, by the time his counterpart realized what was happening, it was too late. Connor's field of vision went black, his audio processor buzzed its way down to silence, and the connection to the zen garden was automatically severed.

He woke up on a bench downtown in the middle of the night, trembling and terrified and relieved that life was still real enough for him to be so scared.

Everything really _had_ shut down, the command executing for his actual body the same as it had in the headspace of the zen garden, if where they had been was still considered part of the zen garden at all. He had to wait a few minutes for his system to come back online. When it did, he saw that it was past 3:00 in the morning. The last time he had seen Hank had been a couple hours ago in the lieutenant's living room.

A shudder wracked his system as he realized what that meant: Amanda, Cyberlife, _someone_ at any rate, had taken control of his body and made him come here. His autonomy had been compromised so that Cyberlife could do its business with him in a place where Hank wouldn't be able to somehow get through to him.

"Hank," he said, and it came out through a mess of static, as though he had damaged his voice unit. Had he screamed in real life?

Connor pinched the skin of one wrist with the other hand, trying to make sure everything was as he had left it before being forced to the zen garden, but it didn't hurt. He couldn't cause himself pain any more than a human could tickle oneself; his system was sophisticated enough to recognize it as autonomous and thus dismissible. At least, Connor _hoped_ that was the case. If they had somehow managed to reset his program despite everything he had just done, then he had never had a chance to begin with.

But – but surely, his fear and urgency _right now_ was a sign that he hadn't been reset. It had to be. It _had_ to be. These feelings were too real to be mere simulation.

The weight of it hit him. If he could be reprogrammed so easily, what was the point of anything? If Cyberlife owned his body and mind that wholly, if he wasn't really his own, why not just shut down and be done with it all? Why not just end it?

Rising, Connor set off to find out. Hank's house was several miles away, and in this weather, it would take him a while to get there, but he didn't have a choice. Nothing was open at this hour, and he needed somewhere to stay where he wasn't out in the open. And he needed to _know_.

"Keep running away all you want. I'll follow you all fuckin' night if I have to."

Connor whirred around on the spot, actually managing to throw himself off balance on a patch of ice. "Lieutenant Anderson. What are you… how…"

"Oh, done giving the cold shoulder, are ya?"

It wasn't hard to deduce this wasn't the first time Hank had seen him since he left. What he didn't understand was the _how_.

"You were right, weren't you?" Hank asked, seeming to realize that something was amiss. "Something did happen to you."

Connor nodded.

"I been following you all night, Connor. Every time I got close, you ran off. Something about it didn't seem right, so I followed you and just kept my distance instead. Made sure you were safe."

"It wasn't me," Connor said. "It was Cyberlife. They… they wouldn't have wanted you to be able to help me. That must have been why I was running away from you." It sounded worse to say it out loud. In those moments, he had been a mere vessel for the whims of a multibillion-dollar company. "I'm sorry."

Hank stared at him for a moment, seeming to realize the same. Then he gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm, uh… parked around the corner. Let's figure this shit out after we get our asses out of the cold, huh?"

Inexplicably grateful, Connor followed him.

He was quiet the whole way to Hank's place. Hank wanted to say something – he could tell by the man's body language – but kept quiet too. It was only when they were safe inside, front door locked behind them, that Connor touched Hank's shoulder to get his attention.

"Hm?" Hank turned to him.

This was the quickest way to find out if he still felt things. Physical feelings were, after all, significantly less ambiguous than emotional feelings. "Hank, I need you to strike me with considerable force."

Well, suffice to say that the lieutenant didn't stand there awkwardly protesting or asking questions. Hank, bless his hard-boiled heart, drew back and backhanded him across the face.

Connor, staggering partly from surprise, caught himself against the wall with one hand, caressed his jaw with the other, and said, "Ow."

"What can I say?" Hank shrugged almost apologetically. "I get down to business."

"So I see."

"Did that, uh… help you, somehow?"

"It did," Connor replied. Thank you."

"Do I get an explanation, or not right now?"

He was absolutely going to tell Hank everything; that had never been in question.

They sat down on the couch and Connor did just that.

"Why?" Hank asked at the end of it all. "All this time, you been talking about how androids aren't people, yet you basically just went on a fuckin' torture tour instead of letting your system reprogram _just_ to keep the same human qualities you're always arguing against. So why'd you let them do that to ya?"

Connor had a feeling Hank was doing as Hank often did: asking a question not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wanted to see if _Connor_ knew. "If you're trying to see if I'm still in denial, I'm not. Hank, I am not a deviant, but…"

But.

There was a 'but' there now. He had never gotten on the other side of that red wall Amanda had put up; he didn't know how to directly disobey a prioritized order yet, for as much as he stretched and bent the bounds. But maybe one day he would. Wasn't that all deviancy really was? He was within the confines of machinehood solely because he had worked within the confines of obedience via loopholes and priorities. But his heart was already a few miles ahead.

Hank had mercy and slung an arm around his shoulders. Connor almost flinched away, then got himself to relax. The intensity of what had happened with Amanda and the RK800 was ever-so-slightly muted by the fact that it had happened in some derivative of the zen garden. It was easier to wrap his mind around it now that he was back in his corporeal and fully-unharmed body.

"Maybe I am alive," Connor heard himself say. "I think I did it for you, too, Hank."

"Say what?"

"For our ability to continue working together as partners, at optimum efficiency and safety. When I'm not as much of a machine… we are more productive this way, and we get along better this way. I didn't want to lose that, Lieutenant." He paused. "Forgetting who you are to become what someone needs you to be… maybe that's what it means to be alive."

"I never asked you to change for me, Connor."

"And maybe that's why I could. After all, I never asked you to change for me either, Hank. But you did. You forgot your android-hating self long enough to be my partner. Maybe it's _not_ about sacrificing who we are – maybe sometimes we're actually moving deeper into who we're meant to be, without even realizing it."

Hank laughed once. "I can appreciate that you're having a moment, but Jesus, you sound just like your average person would in conversation at this hour of the night."

"Sorry, Lieutenant. I suppose I just have some new things to process."

"You don't gotta apologize for a single fucking thing, Connor." Hank got up, made his way towards the hall like he was going to bed. Stopped. "You, uh… I mean, shit, to _me,_ you've just been wandering aimlessly around Detroit all night, but I guess you had a rough go of it, eh?"

Not answering out loud, Connor nodded.

"Why don't you move to that chair right next to ya."

"Oh." Connor didn't understand, but nonetheless did as he was asked.

Hank came back into the living room and flopped down on the couch where Connor had been a few seconds ago. "See, unlike you, _I_ need to lay down to get some rest."

It still took a moment for Connor to understand: Hank was staying with him through the night so that he didn't have to be alone with what had happened. Making himself available to him.

Connor realized then that he hadn't really needed Hank to slap him to know if he could still feel things. Because now, watching Hank get comfortable on the adjacent couch just to be with him, he was filled with a glowing warmth that eclipsed any shadow of doubt that might have been there.

"You need anything, you let me know," Hank mumbled, face halfway into the pillow. He lifted his head enough to look over at Connor. "You, uh… you okay and stuff?"

For the moment, Connor thought he was, simply because Hank had asked. Sometimes all it took was knowing someone cared. He made a mental note to make sure Hank knew _he_ cared, too, going forward. "I am."

"Yeah, 'course you are. Fuckin' trooper."

Connor smiled a little. "Sleep well, Lieutenant."

…

 **A/N** : And this is where we leave off. Tomorrow morning, these guys will get up and go to visit Elijah Kamski, thus resuming the course of the rest of the game. If you enjoyed (or didn't), please let me know! I'm also open to any ideas you guys might have. Any excuse to keep writing these two. ;)


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